When The Phone Rings
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: A pre-Vegas GSR tale. Grissom needs a distraction after a string of horrifying cases take their toll on his ability to sleep. When he calls an old friend, their conversation takes a turn for the erotic. What will the consequences be? Read and review!


Author's Note: My first pre-Vegas GSR story! Normally I write one-shots or ask for my readers' opinions as to whether there should be additional chapters to a story, but I feel pretty confident telling you all that there will be subsequent chapters to this one. It's just begging and screaming at me to write more, mostly with that final paragraph. You'll see what I mean. I tried to delete it so this could be a simple one-shot, but it yelled at me and called me mean names, so I'm keeping it, with all its implications.

Disclaimer: Grissom can make phone calls like this to me any time. However, he'll have to get written permission on the pink form in triplicate, because he and Sara and everything else CSI-related still belong to people other than me.

* * *

Grissom lay perfectly still, hands flat against the cool of his sheets, staring up at his ceiling. Three days without any particularly difficult or horrifying cases—a routine B&E, a missing wife that turned out to be just a fed-up woman disappearing on her husband to avoid the cost of a divorce, a dead body in the desert that was an unfortunately ill-prepared hiker, but not a murder case. And then, the shit had just exploded against the fan.

A ten-year-old boy had been abducted, raped, and left for dead in front of the Mandalay Bay Casino. Three women's bodies had been left on the front steps of the local paper on successive nights, their bodies brutally slashed, parts missing. And Catherine had come in to work with a mysterious bruise on her cheek and refused to discuss it with him. He had come in to the locker room to find her sobbing in Warrick's arms, and had left uncomfortably, uncertain which bothered him more—seeing her behaving overly familiarly with a younger coworker, or the fact that she had apparently felt more comfortable with Warrick than with him.

And now, no surprise, he could not sleep. His mind raced in circles, dredging up horrific images as he contemplated evidence until he wanted to scream. He rarely admitted it, but tonight, he needed a distraction.

There was none.

He sighed. Well, there might be one. He consulted his watch. 10 am. Would she be at work? He could never remember which shift she was working these days.

He picked up his cell phone, found her name in his contacts list. He listened impatiently to the dial tone, and started to hang up after the fourth ring. Her voice stopped him.

"Sidle."

"Hi. It's Grissom." He tried to sound casual.

"Hey." Her voice sounded wary. "What's up?"

He sighed, heavily, and honesty betrayed him. "I can't sleep."

Silence. Then she said slowly, "Am I your Nyquil?"

He frowned. "No."

"Look, Grissom, I don't think this is a good idea."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Why not?"

Her voice was very low as she said, "Have you forgotten what happened last time?"

He flushed. "How could I? But that's not why I'm calling."

"That's not why you called three weeks ago, either."

"Can we have a truce?" He hated that he sounded so pleading.

"Sure. But you have to promise to talk buggy to me." God, she sounded so young. She bounced back so easily. He should hang up.

"I will," he promised. "Are you at work?"

"No. I'm working swing shift, remember?"

"No," he admitted. "I didn't."

"Well, normally I'd have to go in at four, but it's my day off. I can talk as long as you like. What's going on?"

He began to tell her about the past few days, about the cases that had his mind tied in knots and his spirits particularly low. She listened patiently, only occasionally interjecting to ask about a piece of evidence or suggest a new tactic. Nothing she suggested was something he had not thought of himself, but he liked the fact that their minds worked in similar ways. She was good now, but someday she was going to be a really fantastic CSI, even if she was not particularly crazy about insects.

"I'm really sorry you're feeling so overwhelmed," she said quietly, when he had finished. His eyes widened. He had never said he felt overwhelmed.

"I'm fine."

"Please, Grissom." He heard her shift, heard the rustle of fabric. "I can tell when you're stressed out. I bet you've got some throbby little vein pulsing out of your head somewhere."

He laughed despite himself. The rustle came again, and he cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "What's that sound?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Uh, I put you on speakerphone while I changed clothes."

He cleared his throat. "Oh."

"No, Grissom." She sounded like she was scolding a mischievous puppy. He scowled.

"No, what?"

"I can feel that brilliant brain of yours going places it needs to avoid. Keep the blood flowing north; we really can't risk losing brain cells as talented as yours."

"Sara Sidle," he said in a low voice. "You're making a pretty big assumption."

"From what you told me last time, it is a pretty big…assumption."

He choked. "For the record, you're starting this."

"I'm not starting anything." Her voice was low and sultry and connected viscerally with things low in his body.

"I should go." The husky roughness in his voice had to be a dead giveaway.

"Hmm. Not what you said three weeks ago."

"Excuse me?"

"Not 'I should go.' More like, 'I'm going to—'"

"Stop, Sara." Now he was the one backpedaling.

Her voice took on an apologetic timbre. "Sorry. I can't resist. You crossed a pretty serious line, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I'm not." _Of course she wasn't._

"What are we doing?" he asked suddenly, and silence greeted his question. When she spoke, her words were very careful.

"You're a wonderful man, Grissom. I'm very grateful for our friendship."

He winced at the words. "Really."

"Of course." She sounded surprised. "And I'm…very attracted to you."

He shifted again against his sheets. "Really."

"Yes, really. I think our conversations are intellectual and stimulating and therapeutic. Anything else is just gravy."

"Gravy?"

"Something extra yummy on top," she said teasingly. He laughed again. How could she always make him laugh?

"Tell me what's happening in your life," he said finally, eager to change the subject, direct it back to safer waters. "How's San Francisco?"

"Warm and wet," she said with her own laugh, and he tried to ignore the double entendre. "Seriously, though—"

He listened to her talk about her latest cases, her frustration with one of her teammates who acted like a know-it-all even though he was even less experienced than she was, and the sometimes tense relationship she had with the swing shift supervisor, an older woman who apparently viewed her as some sort of threat just because she was another female CSI. He thought of Catherine, his shift's sole female investigator, and offered some thoughts on the difficulty of working in a male-dominated field. They drifted into a somewhat feisty gender-studies debate, and somewhere in the middle he realized that he was genuinely happy, lying alone in his bed, listening to a woman fifteen years his junior talk about her life five hundred miles away.

He glanced at his clock. Nearly noon. God, she could absorb his time and his brain like no one else he had ever met. He yawned despite himself.

"Have I worn you out, Grissom?" Sara sounded both teasing and a little self-deprecating. He chuckled.

"A little," he admitted. He heard a soft sound from her end.

"So many ways to do that," she said quietly. And here they were again.

"You said this wasn't a good idea," he reminded her. She sighed.

"I say a lot of things."

He pictured her: soft brunette curls, wide dark eyes, impossibly long legs that she insisted on obscuring in equally long pants. He echoed her sigh. He was not sure if he could keep from succumbing this time either, if she continued pushing the issue.

"Are you in bed?" So soft, he had to strain to hear her.

"Yes."

"Me too." He heard a soft rustling sound again. "I know delivery men must think I'm a weirdo when I answer the door at two in the afternoon in pajamas."

He smiled despite himself. "I know what you mean."

A long pause. "Grissom, I wish I could see you."

He sucked in a slow breath. "Why?"

"Because I remember your eyes being the bluest ones I'd ever seen, and I'm wondering if I have mental exaggeration."

He chuckled. "I think I'll take that as a compliment."

"Grissom…"

He sighed softly. "Sara."

"Please touch me."

His head spun a little. The issue was pushed. "Where?" he asked roughly.

"Anywhere," she said a little breathlessly.

He cleared his throat. Last time she had started this, she had dared him to just lay there and listen to her. He had admitted during the conversation—how exactly had it come up, again?—that he had never had phone sex, and she had laughed and told him it was like auditory porn. He had flushed and told her that it sounded entirely too uncomfortable for him to consider, and she had dared him to lie there and listen while she gave him a demonstration. He had almost hung up, but in the end, she had won out, and driven him to the brink and over with her vivid descriptions and enticing sounds.

Now, it seemed, they were heading down the same road again. His body responded to the thought, but the rational part of himself told him that this was a very bad idea. She was his friend, not a means to an end. He would never be able to see her again if this became some sort of habit; he did not think he could bring himself to look a colleague in the eyes when he knew what she sounded like in the throes of orgasm.

"I can't, Sara."

"Hmm," she said softly, a musing sound that almost verged into a moan. "Can't, or won't?"

"I really, really can't."

"You're not even trying."

"This isn't…me. This isn't the sort of thing I do."

"And what is the sort of thing you do?" Her voice sounded heated, and not in a good way. "When was the last time you had actual sex?"

"I'm not going to discuss that with you," he said, shocked.

"I bet it's been months, maybe even a year or two," she replied, stunning him with her accuracy. "I bet the last time was, maybe, on a third or fourth date with a woman you weren't sure you even liked. But she kissed nicely and you were lonely and you thought, what the hell? And you never called her again."

He sat up, the sheets falling down around his waist, and stared hard at the wall as if it would reveal her face to him. "What are you, a psychic?"

She laughed. "No. But that's what _my_ last time was like, more or less. With a guy, that is. I figured if I was vague enough, I'd probably be close."

"Frighteningly." He hated admitting it to her.

"And how long ago was that?"

He remained resolved. "Long enough."

"Then what's the harm in releasing a little tension with someone you trust?" Her voice softened. "You do trust me, don't you?"

He nodded, forgetting she could not see him. "Grissom?"

"Yes, of course I trust you."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I feel like I'm—using you." His voice cracked a little. "And I don't think I can say the things that you say."

She laughed again. "You can't use the willing. And you don't have to say the things I say. Say anything you like."

"I can't."

She sighed. "All right. I'm sorry."

"I should go."

Another sigh. "Yeah, all right. Thank you for calling." She sounded oddly formal now, and he was disappointed for reasons he couldn't precisely pinpoint.

"Sleep well."

"I'll try." She had completely closed off, and his fingers tightened around his sheets.

"Sara, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Almost brusque.

"It's just—"

"Please don't explain anymore. You're just making things more awkward."

"All right," he acquiesced. "Will you be going to sleep?"

"Soon." She sounded purposefully vague.

"Soon?"

"I got a little worked up, Grissom," she snapped. "I intend to do something about it, with or without you."

"Oh." He felt very small.

Her voice softened. "I would rather do it with you, but you're not giving me that option."

He hesitated, seeing the chasm yawning before him. He closed his eyes and jumped. "You said anywhere?"

A gasp. "What?"

"You said anywhere?" he repeated, letting his voice drop into its lower registers.

"I—yes. Anywhere."

He pictured her lips, the swell of her breasts, the delicious length of her thighs, the curve of her neck. "Your throat."

He lay perfectly still in the silence, imagining her trailing those slender fingers down the length of her throat, her head tilted back slightly. Her breath was soft and fast in his ear. "Interesting choice."

"Are you talking, or doing?"

"Both," she said saucily, but he did not smile.

"Anywhere else you'd like me to touch you?"

"Anywhere," she repeated, but he did not give in so easily.

"Be specific, Sara."

She moaned softly, and his body tightened. "My breasts."

"Why?"

She choked a little. "Why?"

"Yes, why? Why would you want me to touch you there?"

He heard her shift. "Because—because I would like it."

He laughed a little, letting the sound darken slightly. "You seem to have lost that charmingly dirty vocabulary you demonstrated for me last time."

"I didn't lose it," she said defensively. "You're just approaching things from a radically different angle."

"And what angle would you prefer?"

"I don't know!" she said, a little frustrated. "I thought you would—you would tell me what you wanted me to do."

Grissom shifted the phone to his other ear. "You want me to tell you how to pleasure yourself?"

"Yes." She sounded breathless again. "I really, really do."

"All right." He cleared his throat. "Touch your breasts, Sara."

Her breathing quickened. Without thinking, one hand slipped down over his abdomen and found his already aching erection, lightly teasing it as he listened to the sounds of her breathing. "Are you?"

"I am nothing if not compliant," she said, her teasing tone lost in the overtones of her arousal. He smiled.

"Do you prefer it gentle, or rough?"

Her breath hitched. "It depends."

"Today?"

She moaned softly. "Rough."

"Pinch your nipples, Sara."

He could hear her groaning, tossing a little on her bed, and his hand completely closed around his arousal, dragging along it in one long stroke.

"Do you want to stop?"

"Fuck, no," she swore, making the corners of his mouth twist up a little. He rarely cursed, but he could picture her beautiful mouth forming the vulgar words, and the contrast was more than a little enticing.

"Touch yourself, Sara," he murmured, and hesitated. Then he added, "No penetration, not yet."

"God, Grissom." She was panting, and he could picture her slim fingers sliding between her legs, teasing and touching. His hand began to move faster.

"Yes, Sara?" He could not resist teasing her, even now.

"I love the way you say my name after—after every thing you tell me to do," she moaned, and he arched his hips a little.

"You have a beautiful name."

He listened to her quickened breaths and moans for a few moments, his own groans occasionally intermingling with hers. After one particularly vocal moment, she said, "Are you with me, Grissom?"

"Oh, yes," he said quietly. "I am."

"Oh," she whispered. "I thought maybe—I wasn't sure."

"Is that a problem?" He hid the uncertainty in his voice under layers of demand.

"No! God, no. You better be."

He groaned, the image of her lips wrapped around him dancing unbidden through his mind. "One finger, Sara."

She cried out his name. "You're driving me crazy."

"It's not an accident," he said roughly, fighting the waves of dizziness and lust that threatened to send him over the edge before her. "I like hearing you going crazy."

"I wish I could see you," she panted. "Right now, I wish I could see you and whatever it is you're doing that is making you sound like that."

"You're confused as to what I'm doing?" Still he had to tease her.

"No," she moaned. "But tell me anyway."

"Two fingers, Sara."

She cursed, and he could hear her head thrashing a bit on the pillow. "Tell me, Grissom."

"I doubt you need a description."

"I want to see you!"

"Close your eyes."

"Tell me, Grissom."

His hand tightened. He was so close. "Three fingers, Sara."

She groaned. "I—oh, god, I can't."

"Why not?"

For the first time, she sounded a little shy. "Too—too tight."

He nearly lost his mind. "Fine. Two is—is fine."

"Tell me, Grissom." Forget compliant. She was nothing if not persistent.

"What do you think, Sara?" he growled. "I'm touching myself."

"How?" She was so breathless, he thought she might be on the verge of passing out.

"With my hand," he said stubbornly. He would not give in to her goading.

"Grissom." Her voice was very tight, and he thought he remembered that sound.

"Are you close, Sara?"

She moaned. "So close…"

He gave in. "I'm stroking myself for you, Sara. I'm picturing your mouth around me; I'm seeing myself deep inside you, and you are so beautiful…"

"Grissom." She sounded almost frantic.

"Come for me, Sara."

And she did, her moans and cries and whimpers sending him spiraling off into blackness, his own body spasming and spilling hot fluid over his hand. He nearly dropped the phone to the floor as his hips arched and bucked, but it was his only connection to the sensual and orgasmic sounds pouring from her mouth, so he clung to it like a lifeline.

He slowly climbed his way back to reality, hearing her breathing slow and soften along with his. At last, he asked softly, "Are you all right?"

She laughed. "I'm a little better than all right."

He felt suddenly shy. "Was _that_ all right?"

"Quit your day job, Grissom. You've got a real skill."

He could not hold back his smile. "I think I'll stick with where I am, but thanks."

He heard her shift, and when she spoke again, her voice was brushed with sadness. "I really do wish I could see you."

"I understand," he said, and he did. Suddenly his bed felt very cold.

"You should sleep," she said gently, and even though he wanted to protest, his eyes were heavy.

"You too," he murmured.

He could almost hear her shrug over the phone. "Maybe."

"I didn't call you for this, Sara." He was sleepy, but he felt an almost urgent need to make sure she understood that.

"I know, Gris." The familiar shortened version of his name sounded so intimate on her lips. "I enjoy everything with you—the long talks, the debates…and this."

"Good." The darkness hovered around the edges of his vision.

"Sleep now," she murmured, and he drifted into unconsciousness as she clicked off.

* * *

Two months later, he called her to come to Vegas. He needed her unprejudiced eye to evaluate an employee situation, he said. She came, eager to see him, and stayed, delighted to work with him. She came, and she stayed, and everything changed.


End file.
